Life in the Female State           by: Andrea

 

Part 2

 

Chapter 5

When I recovered consciousness I was lying on the floor. My eyes refused to focus and my head ached abominably. Looking up I saw a young woman dressed in an old dressing gown sitting on the couch. She was cradling a cricket bat in her lap.

‘Mary!’ I groaned, ‘You nearly killed me!’

‘I originally intended to. That’s what a burglar deserves.’

‘What made you change your mind ?’

She smiled ‘Oh, Let’s say I made a phone call and it’s all sorted out now.’

‘Oh Sweet Mary. She’d called the cops! Any moment now the door would burst open and four burly big policewomen would beat the daylights out of me with their truncheons. I tried to get to my feet but found to my horror that my trousers and knickers were round my ankles. I covered my private parts with one hand and struggled to pull up my pants. What a perverted bitch!

She pointed to my hands with the bat. ‘Don’t worry Sweetheart. I put two and two together.’ She went on, ‘I got a shock when I found out you weren’t a woman. Then I realised that you had a key. Joe’s key, his initials are on the key ring – after all I gave it to him. I reckoned you must be one of the striptease boys from the club and so I phoned him and he told me that you were an old friend who was in some trouble with the police and needed to hide for a few weeks.’

‘Anyway, James’ she continued with an exaggerated yawn, ‘My name is Francis, though my friends call me Frankie. We can sort everything out in the morning. I’m going back to bed and you can sleep on the couch.’ And with that she helped me to my feet and led me to the couch. Then she turned off the light and disappeared.

My head was aching but it had been over seventy two hours since I’d slept and despite the fact that I felt very uneasy about the presence of Joe’s homicidal friend and her cricket bat in the next room I fell fast asleep in moments.

It was late the next morning when I woke. Sunlight was streaming in the window and there was a delicious aroma of cooking bacon and coffee in the air. I hobbled through to the kitchen rubbing my eyes.

There, with his back to me, a man was cooking breakfast. He had long blonde hair and was dressed in a peasant blouse and a long cotton skirt. ‘O Mistress!’ I thought ‘This really complicates things. I had no idea that she might have a boyfriend living here.’ Still, he was here, so I’d better be polite.

‘Hi’ I said. ‘Can I help? Lay the table or something? My name’s James. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

The boy gave a little laugh. ‘That’s fine, James. Or perhaps you prefer to be called Desiree? But we have already met’ Then he turned and I got a shock. It was the girl from last night dressed in a wig and men’s clothes. This was just too much.

‘Sit down, you look as if you have had a shock.’ she said.

Goddess! Had I ever. I was struck speechless.

So I sat at the breakfast table and she explained herself.

She was, she explained with some passion, a man trapped in a woman’s body. She had always had masculine instincts. Even as a child she liked to play with dolls and dress up in pretty clothes. In her teens she had tried to stop it by taking a double dose of T’s from time to time and that had helped her, but even when she had been sitting her Spinster of Electrical Engineering exams she had worn frilly panties under her trousers for good luck. She’d met Joe when he was working in a shop in Oxford. You know the type of place - the sort of shop where some women go to buy pornographic videos, frillies and wigs. She’d been a good customer and Joe and her became friends. Even after he had left the shop he had helped from time to time, sending her the odd dress, a wig or piece of underwear in small sizes posted in plain brown parcels. She thought, of course, that she had it all under control. Just a little bit of dressing up at weekends. After all, wandering around the flat in men’s underwear, a short dress and high heels didn’t hurt anyone. That is until she had got selected. That cruel twist of fate had been the watershed. At the Centre, with no testosterone tablets to hold back her rabid masculinity she had apparently lost control.

Her face twisted in an agonised expression as she went on. ‘Please James, you have no idea how what it’s like. I was developing breasts, for Mary’s sake! And I was having strange dreams about the male nursing attendants. Then after a few months I felt sick and started to bleed inside. I recovered but then it happened again and went on at regular intervals for months. Eventually the doctors told me I was ready for some treatment and an attendant took me for a tour of some hospital wing. Can you believe it, there were women there, grown women mark you, with sagging bellies as big as some of those starving Swiss children you see in the Oxfam documentaries. Well, there was no way I was going to end up like that, so I did a runner. Next night I slugged a guard, took her packet of T’s, stole a car from the parking area and drove up here. I’ve been in hiding here for two weeks now – but I can’t seem to shake the male thing’

She was crying now. Mary, I hate to see a grown woman cry. But she went on, ‘I’m trying to get back but the T’s make me so sick and I always seem to threw them up. I can’t get the masculine thing out of my system and the only time I feel comfortable is when I’m dressed in men’s clothes.’ She clasped my hand, ‘Mistress, Do I disgust you?’

‘No’ I told her wrapping my arm around her shoulder ‘You are a wonderfully honest person.’

I lied. To tell you the absolute truth she did disgust me. I felt slightly sick. This was one weird situation! I suppose I had always known that Joe was a bit gay, but he was in the entertainment industry where things like that can be tolerated, if not condoned, as just a bit of fun. However this was different. I’m no prude, but this rampant display of transexualism was just a bit much. After all, I ask you, if the good Lady had wished women to dress in frocks and frilly knickers he would have given them balls and a dick. However, dressed as I was in battledress fatigues – with stubble on my chin and the shortest of short haircuts, I was obviously identified in her mind as her male alter ego and I was certainly in no position to argue. So I choked back my feelings and tried to tell her what she wanted to hear.

‘I quite understand, you poor thing. You make a …’ and here I felt my voice wavering and my mouth fill with the taste of soap as I prepared myself to tell a whopping lie, ‘.. …are.., could.., would,.. might make a very pretty boy.’

Oh Mistress, How could I possibly have said that? Looking at her now, with the sleep rubbed from my eyes, I could see that she couldn’t even conceivably pass, even from the back on a pitch dark night, for a boy. There was no way she looked at all masculine. She was barely 1.6 metre tall and despite her long wig and the clothes there was no disguising her narrow waist and her female hips and legs. Actually, she was just all woman. The type of girl that young boys find themselves fanticising about. The sort of woman who you always dreamt would sweep you off your feet, carry you off into the sunset and take care of you for ever after. And here she was, the girl of my adolescent dreams, dressed in a frilly blouse and skirt, with badly applied makeup, telling me that she was really a man!

I stuttered and pointed to my chest ‘I, I .. really need a shower. Where is the powder room?’

After a long luxurious shower and a scrape with a razor to rid myself of what was becoming a disturbing amount of underarm and leg hair I popped a couple of pinks, wrapped my head in a towel and borrowed her dressing gown from behind the door. I felt almost masculine again.

It was disconcerting to be waited on by a woman. She tried ever so hard.. She had even tried to fold the napkins. The only thing Susan had used napkins for was to wipe her nose. No.. that’s not exactly true. She had once used two of my antique Nottingham lace dollies to clean the gearbox parts of her motorbike. Anyway, despite the fact that the bacon was undercooked and the egg had the consistency of a frisbee, the breakfast was the best food I’d had for ages. Well, days. In fact, it was the only food I’d had for days. Obviously, I reflected, biting into a piece of toast that had the rheology of burnt chipboard, Frankie’s tertiary technical education had not extended to the operation of an electric toaster. I was surreptitiously moving the tip of my tongue around my mouth, checking to see whether any of the crowns in my back teeth were missing, when she spoke.

‘I’ve washed your clothes and hung them out on the line.’

Oh Mary! I could have strangled the bitch. ‘What do you mean? Hung them out on the line. Didn’t Joe tell you that I’m on the run! You might as well have put an advert in the local paper! Didn’t you realise that you’ve just put up a lickin’ flag saying that I’m here!’

She hung her head for a moment then began to cry. ‘I’m sorry’

But Goddess, was I mad. Three months ago I’d never have dared to speak to a woman like that. But my anger just swelled up inside me and I exploded. I just lashed out and struck her on the side of the head screaming ‘You stupid, ignorant cow!’

She fell to the ground at my feet. I thought for a moment she would get up and slug me but she just lay there clutching my knees and crying. Well I suppose I’m soft hearted. I picked her up, she couldn’t have weighed over fifty kilo’s, and put her on the couch. Then I retrieved my uniform clothes from the washing line and hung them near the kitchen fire. In way of a displacement activity I cleaned up the kitchen a bit but my heart wasn’t really in it. The time was that I’d have got the place sparkly clean but it didn’t seem to be worth it so I stoked up the fire with some logs, collapsed into a chair, turned on the TV and watched one of my favourite soap operas. I’d missed three months of episodes but nothing seemed to have changed. Mary, now the forewoman in a construction firm, who had been living with Philip from the massage parlour, had apparently now proposed to Tom, the big boobed waiter in the local café, but Tom was still seeing Angela – who was an ex-boxer. After a confrontation in the ‘King Albert’, where Mary accused Tom of being a slut, he ran off crying and fell in Victoria Square. It had just got to the point where Mary and Angela had stripped of their shirts for a fistfight over Tom … when Francis woke up. I switched off the TV and sat down on the floor beside her, resting my head against her leg.

The conditioned words just seemed to slip out my mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.. I got irrationally angry. It was an accident.’ I said. I didn’t mean any of it, but we boys just have to knuckle under sometimes. Goddess knows how many times in history men have just had to bite their tongues and lie to a women. The female ego is a fragile thing which has to be carefully massaged.

But Sweet Mistress, I was not prepared for what happened next.. She was all over me, crying and touching me in a very personal way. And the next thing was that my peeing thing got hard and then I don’t really know what happened. Suddenly I was on top of her and things went completely haywire. I couldn’t help myself. Mary, I tore off her underpants and pushed myself into her. Into her licking hole. It was crazy. I wanted to punish her in some way. To make her suffer. My thing was hard as a dildo and I plunged it into her body. She cried out and struggled and screamed – but I was beyond listening. Somehow, somewhere I crested a wave and then suddenly plunged off the planet into oblivion and was aware of a type of deep down feeling that I’d never dreamed of.

When I woke it was dark and the room was only illuminated by the dying flickers of the fire. I was lying on the rug and Francis’s head was on my chest. Just like that, weird. I wondered for a moment that she might be dead, but she was still breathing, thank Goddess. I picked her up, laid her on the couch and covered her with a blanket. But Sweet Mary, her face was all swollen where I had hit her. But come to think of it my back wasn’t exactly perfect either. That bitch had torn lumps of flesh out of it. It felt like a cat had used it for sharpening its claws. I had the sudden quite irrational thought that I wouldn’t be able to wear a bikini or a low cut evening dress for weeks.

I sat in the dark on the rug before the fire and hugged my knees. I felt rather smug inside at first then, as I analysed the situation, I started to feel very ashamed. Mistress, what had I actually done? I’d hit a young woman and then assaulted her like a depraved animal. She will certainly go straight to the police in the morning, and when they catch you Jamie you will surely swing. It may not be pleasant. Probably they will tie your balls to the ceiling with a bungee cord and beat you to death with rubber truncheons. Francis and Susan would be first in line. Maybe Captain Sharon and Sergeant Nicols would probably be there to help if they got tired. Sweet Mistress, I thought as I fell asleep, was I ever in the very deepest shit.

 

© 2001
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